


Of Goats and Manhood

by omg_okimhere



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: In response to a recent AO3 Tag of the Day "stealing a goat is super romantic".  Well, maybe not romantic in the purest sense of the word, but this is Bronn, after all.





	

It had all started with a game of Truth or Dare.  

Lounging along the Green Fork in the wake of their victory, the Lannister army had settled in, occupying a vast plain along the river with their red and gold tents and their lion rampant pennants.  The soldiers spent the days digging trenches, the nights drinking and whoring with the willing camp followers who hopped from bedroll to bedroll.  Not to be outdone in any of these endeavors, Lord Tywin’s shorter son had taken to organizing drinking games of an evening amongst his closer allies.  Last night’s sport had involved a questioner with a probing personal query, and the choice to answer and thereby earn a drink, or decline and take a challenge task. 

_How many bastards do you figure you have across Westeros, and have you ever seen any of them?_ Bronn still stung from Tyrion’s prying interrogatory.  The sellsword had found the question unsettling, delving too deeply into his role and responsibilities as a man, and he had defiantly opted for the dare.  And in the wine-inspired imagination of the Imp, the dare could only be something sublimely ridiculous. 

Thus it was, that Bronn found himself hiking through the pre-dawn murk towards a goatsherd’s hovel alongside the only other player at the table to refuse an ask.  Bronn steals a glance at the mysterious lady fighter who matches his swinging stride.  Short of stature, dark-haired, with a tongue as wry as his.  No doubt stronger than she looks.  Normally he prefers his women much less warlike, and much more pliant.  _And naked_ , he thinks fleetingly.  Though he has to admit, the tight leggings and woolen tunic this one wears are rather fetching. 

“What’s your name, then?” he asks in curiosity, to fill the silence. 

“Sissel,” she replies shortly, adjusting her knife belt as she walks without looking at him. 

“You can call me Bronn,” the sellsword offers with a degree of verbal swagger. 

Sissel meets his eyes with a faintly mocking smile.  “Bronn, the Father of Bastards, apparently.”  He gives her a deadpan stare.  “Why didn’t you just make up a number?” 

Bronn rolls his tongue against the inside of his mouth, looking away in discomfiture.  “I was caught off-guard.”  _Fine admission for a sellsword_ , he shakes his head in annoyance at himself.   He tries again.  “Not a proper question, to my mind.” 

“You seem quite the proper type,”  scoffs Sissel teasingly. 

Bronn sees the need to change the subject.  “What about you?  Why not just admit it?” 

“Admit what?” 

“That you were born a wilding.”  Everyone in camp thought so – her boldness, her battle skill, her wild beauty. 

Sissel slides a coy gaze his way.  “Was I?” 

Hooking his thumbs into his waistband, Bronn saunters out ahead of her, turning back to look her over from head to toe.  “Well, you don’t carry yourself like any high-born maid I’ve ever seen.” 

Sissel doesn’t bother to suppress her eyeroll.  “Firstly, I’m far from a maid.” 

_Glad to hear it_ , thinks Bronn with rising interest. 

“Secondly, perhaps I’m low-born.  And thirdly, it’s none of anyone’s damn business.” 

The air explodes with Bronn’s snort of amusement.  “Agreed!”  he says whole-heartedly.  “Then it looks like we two need to steal a goat.”

 

 

*****************

 

 

“Which one shall we take?”  Sissel inspects the crowd of bleaters milling around them – white, black, pie-bald – all seeming to expect a hand out. 

“It makes no matter,” answers Bronn carelessly.  “Goat’s a goat.”  He turns angrily when one of the kids butts him in the rear. 

“Might as well take a fat one,” reasons the woman who may or may not have roots beyond the Wall.  “They make a good stew.”  She pulls a coiled rope from her shoulder and nooses a heavy bellied black and white.  “Did you bring something to lure it?” she asks practically. 

“What? No!” exclaims Bronn.  “They eat anything, I’ve heard.”  _Even a bloke’s manhood, according to the Imp._ He eyes the coarse-coated creature warily, as it stares back at him with its other-wordly pupils and baas loudly.

 

 

*****************

 

 

As the sky begins to lighten, Bronn and Sissel lead their docile charge back into camp, a bit of mischief on their minds.  Stopping outside the dwarf’s tent, they exchange conspiratorial grins, before shoving the goat through the tent flap.  They both spill in behind the loudly protesting animal, which promptly trots over and pulls the bedcovers from a howling Tyrion and a murderous-looking Shae. 

“Gods help me, Bronn!” cries Tyrion, clutching his pounding skull.  “Get that thing out of here or slit its throat NOW!  My head’s about to split!” 

The pranksters are doubled over with laughter, unable to speak for a few moments. 

“Good morn, m’lord,” wheezes the sellsword mockingly, when he manages to catch his breath.  Capturing the trailing rope in one hand and Sissel’s wrist in the other, he withdraws with a cheeky wave, still shaking with mirth. 

Once outside again, the pair shares the last of their amusement as they saunter away.  The goat has recovered its equanimity more quickly than its captors, and now noses the ground for scraps.  After a moment, Bronn dangles the rope questioningly.  “To the cooks tent?” 

Sissel shakes her head.  “I think I’ll return it.  This one’s making milk for someone.” 

For the first time, Bronn notices the enlarged teats hanging below the protruding ribs.  He raises an eyebrow in disbelief.   “A soft spot in that wildling heart?” 

Sissel ignores the taunt, instead shrugging sweetly.  “Might be one of your bastards she’s being milked for.” 

“Doubt it.”  Bronn squints at the horizon as he makes a seemingly purposeful turn down a new row of canvas.  “Haven’t spent much time in these parts.” 

Sissel has no comeback for that, but he notes with satisfaction that she makes the turn with him.  “Who looks after your brats while you’re off fighting?” he wonders aloud. 

“Don’t have any.” 

This elicits a glance of surprise, followed by a small sigh of regret.  “You don’t like men then.” 

Sissel drops her chin, hiding a smile at his evident disappointment.  “There are herbs…knowledge handed down from the First Men." 

_Wildling witchery,_ Bronn nods to himself. 

“And I do like men – quite a bit.” 

Their eyes meet in perfect understanding.  With a sweeping gesture and a broad grin, Bronn says, “ Just so happens, this is my tent.” 

“Imagine that,” marvels Sissel sarcastically.  “Best tether that goat for a long stay.”

 

 

 

THE END

 


End file.
